


Time for a Change

by bluelipsonbrokenglass



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gambling, I'm so sorry, M/M, Mentions of Death, Myan - Freeform, also mentions of Monty Oum, butchering of original movie events, crappy title warning, cursing, eventual gay, in time AU, mentions of Caiti Pattillo, minor appearances by Kerry Shawcross and Meg Turney, probably no character death because I'm a wimp and I love everyone too dearly, these tags are a mess, uhh I'm new at this fic tagging thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelipsonbrokenglass/pseuds/bluelipsonbrokenglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a future where people's lives are governed by the time on their clocks, where time is both life and money, Michael Jones lives his life day by day. But, when he meets a wealthy businessman, he has the chance to live a new life-- but not without the police on his tail.</p><p>(Eventual) Myan, an AU of the 2011 sci-fi thriller "In Time".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, this fic is (so far) unbeta'd. Please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes! I am also unsure how many chapters this will be. Probably around 10?
> 
> Anyway. I should help explain the clocks a little. It took me a while to decipher it myself, but they each have a total of 13 numbers. 0000:00:0:00:00:00. The times run like this: Years:Weeks:Days:Hours:Minutes:Seconds. That will make it easier to read the time, if you're curious.

Time was all that mattered anymore.

Time was currency. Time was life. In a society genetically engineered to live until twenty-five, with only a year left of their clock after, time was everything. You had to work to live, give time to get time.

Some had it made. Some grew up in the upper-class cities, living each day with twenty plus years on their clocks.

Many didn’t. Many were living day by day, waking up in the morning with less time on their clocks than hours in a day.

Michael thought it was absolute bullshit.

 

Michael Jones woke up one Tuesday morning with the dull green numbers on his left arm glowing through his bed sheets, reading 000:00:0:21:32:15. He glanced at the numbers with a frown. Only twenty-one hours, thirty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds left on his clock.  
He forced himself up and out of bed, yawning as he pulled back the curtains on his barred-up windows, glancing out at the ghetto of New Jersey.

In less than ten minutes, Michael was out the front door, heading to his dead-end, piss-poor factory job.

“Hey, Michael!”

He turned at the sound of his name, finding his apartment neighbor waving as he jogged to catch up with Michael.

“’Mornin’, Jack.”

“Heading to work?”

“Yeah. Picking up some extra shifts today.”

“Ouch. Need the time?”

“Yeah. Just paid some bills last night.”

“Sucks, man.” He pulled back his sleeve and glanced down at the clock on his own wrist, “Hey, why don’t you take half an hour? Use it to get yourself a decent lunch.”

Michael waved his hand, “Nah, man, I can’t let you do that. Besides, I don’t have a clue when I’d be able to pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack grinned, gripping Michael’s wrist, “Consider it a birthday gift.”

“My birthday isn’t in another three months, Jack.”

“I know,” he said, letting thirty minutes transfer from his clock to Michael’s before releasing his grip, “Have a great day, Michael.”

He looked down at the thirty minutes that had just been added to his wrist and shook his head, “You too, Jacky boy.”

Michael had known Jack Pattillo and his wife Caiti for about three years at that point. The pair were quite possibly the most sickeningly cute couple he’d ever met; they were way too kind and giving for living in a place like New Jersey. Even so, Michael was thankful for their hospitality; they’d helped him out in a pinch more times than he’d like to admit.

He was out on the street minutes after that, on his way to pick up his pre-work coffee. In the hustle and bustle on the streets, Michael heard a high-pitched, female voice call his name.  
“Michael!”  
He paused and turned, finding a local young girl he’d come to know.  
“Ruby, isn’t it a bit early for you to be out?”  
“Nope. Can you spare a minute?”  
“What do you need minutes for? You still have a full year on your clock!”  
“A year I can’t use yet. C’mon, dad and I have bills to pay!”

Michael pulled up his sleeve with a sigh, fetching the small metal device Ruby had been holding, placing it against his wrist.  
“I’ll give you five minutes.”  
He let the hand-held machine store five minutes of his time before handing it back to the eleven-year-old.

She took it back with a grin, “Thank you!”  
“Yeah, yeah. Tell Monty I say hi, alright?”  
“I will!”

Michael watched her as she ran off, shaking his head. Such a little girl, worrying about bills and scrounging for time? It was fucked up.

He stepped into line for coffee, along with five other early-morning workers. When only one customer was in-between him and his coffee, his coworker and friend appeared beside him, nudging his shoulder.  
“’Mornin’, Michael.”  
“Yeah, hey, Gavin.”  
“You covering my coffee today?”  
“As long as you pay tomorrow.”  
“Of course. Can’t let my boy go without his morning coffee!”

The customer in front of Michael and Gavin stepped away with his coffee, letting Michael take his order.  
“Two cups of coffee, please.”  
“That’ll be eight minutes.”  
Michael hesitated, “Wait, that’s four minutes for a cup of coffee. Yesterday it was three.”  
“Do you want coffee, or do you want to reminisce?”  
With a grumble, Michael pulled back his sleeve and stuck his arm through the payment window, “Fine. Give me the damn coffee.”

Michael took the two cups as they appeared on the counter, shoving one at Gavin as they walked away from the coffee stand, “How many shifts you got, Gav?”  
“Just the two,” he responded, taking a sip of the coffee, only to gag and almost spit it out. He swallowed anyway, scrunching up his face, “Eeugh, this stuff is disgusting.”  
“Then why the hell are you drinking it, man?”  
“As much as I hate to admit it, it keeps me awake.”  
Michael rolled his eyes, punching Gavin in the shoulder, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

They walked the rest of the way to the factory side-by-side, drinking their coffee and keeping an eye out for trouble.  
They soon merged into the crowd of factory employees, which quickly became a line into the factory itself. As the pair entered the door, they spotted the corpse that lie abandoned a mere few feet away, all thirteen numbers on his clock reading 0 in dull gray.  
“Damn, another one,” Gavin muttered, “In broad daylight, too.”

Michael eyed the corpse. They were becoming too common, the bodies of those whose clocks timed out. It was foreboding, as if they were a sign that the same would soon happen to the rest of them.

He shook his head, putting the thought at the back of his mind and went straight to his work station.

All the factory did was produce the small metal devices used to store time, like the one he had used to give little Ruby five minutes earlier that day. It was a shitty job, making the common devices, but someone had to do it. He was one of them, unfortunately.

The many hours passed and soon Michael was waiting in line at the end of his work day to receive payment.  
When he was in front of the window, he stuck his arm in and felt the time rush into his body. When he checked his arm, however, he found less time than he was expecting.  
He turned to the man in the box room, pointing at his clock, “Hey man, what’s the deal? Where’s the rest of it?”  
“You didn’t hit the quota.”  
“Bullshit, my units are up from last week.”  
“So is the quota.”

Though Michael was pissed and ready to punch this guy’s face in, he knew that it would do little to help. Plus, there were workers in line behind him yelling at him to hurry up, to move on so they could receive their own payment. With one last glare at the man in the room, Michael scoffed, rolled down his sleeve, stuck both hands in his pockets, and left the factory.  
He was planning to meet Gavin at the bar, anyway.

By the time he made it to the bar, Michael was ready to laze off and drink about five beers.  
“Hey, Michael! You in?”  
Michael turned his attention to the man who called at him, sitting at a table with five other people, a pack of cards in his hand.  
“I don’t have the time to gamble, Risemonger.”  
The man grinned at the sound of his nickname, “Oh, thank God. Since you quit, I’ve started winning.”  
“You still owe me an hour, don’t forget.”  
The man rolled his eyes with a grin and held out his arm towards Michael, willingly giving the hour he owed.

When Michael sat down at the bar next to Gavin, the man put his arm around Michael’s shoulder, “Michael, you’re here! You’re not gonna believe it, this madman’s got a century!”  
Michael turned his gaze to the group of bar-goers who seemed to be surrounding someone at the bar.  
“Bullshit,” Michael said, stealing a sip of Gavin’s beer, “If he did, there’s no way he’d be stupid enough to come here.”  
“Whatever you say, Michael,” Gavin shrugged, downing his drink.

Michael looked away from the crowd. It wasn’t his business what the guy was doing here. It wasn’t Michael’s job to stop people from doing stupid shit. If the guy wanted to subject himself to Minutemen, then be his guest.

Michael hailed the bartender to order a drink, who slid him a beer.  
“Free of charge. It’s on the gentleman in the suit,” the bartender said, nodding his head towards the men at the center of attention.

Michael gripped the drink in his hand, letting out an angry sigh.  
“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath before pushing himself up and making his way over to the man with the supposed century clock.

He pushed through the crowd of people, coming to the grinning, mustached man at the center.  
He was laughing, a drink in one hand as he lounged against the bar.  
“Hey, more drinks over here!” He called over his shoulder, twisting his mustache with his free hand.  
His sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos down his lower arms, also exposing the clock on his wrist, showing his numbers to the world: 0116:39:4:05:34:35.

Michael stepped forward, close enough to speak and be heard.  
“Hey man, someone’s going to clean that clock.”  
The man simply grinned, “Yep.”  
“No, I mean they’re not going to rob you. They’re going to kill you for that time. They can’t take that much time from you and let you live to tell about it.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
Michael was getting frustrated at this point, “I don’t think you understand. You shouldn’t be here.”

Michael felt hands grab onto his arm and pull him back, whispering urgently, “Michael. Michael!”  
He spun around, “What, Gavin?”  
That’s when he noticed the bar had grown dead silent.  
“Minutemen,” Michael muttered.

All at once, the people in the bar hustled to the hallway and out the back door, Michael and Gavin being pulled with the crowd.  
Michael pulled himself and Gavin to the side, staring into the main room of the bar to watch the gangsters.

“Michael, they’re minutemen. Come on, you know those gangsters don’t mess around!”  
“Wait, Gavin, just wait.”  
“Michael, whatever it is you’re thinking—”  
“Gavin, just go home.”  
“Michael—”  
“I won’t do anything stupid, just go home.”  
With a pause, Gavin finally shook his head, “Alright, Michael.”

He then turned and ran down the hallway and out the bar’s back door.

Michael watched as one member of the minutemen walked closer to the man with the century clock, who was no longer grinning, but still had a beer in hand.

“The name’s Kerry. And that, sir,” he said, nodding his head at the newcomer, “is a very nice watch.”  
The mustached man didn’t respond. He simple stared at the gangster, his face blank.  
The minuteman, Kerry, tried again, “Would you mind if I tried it on? I think it would suit me.”  
When he was only answered with silence, he rolled up his sleeves, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll fight you for it.”  
Still, silence.  
“Come on. I’m an old man! Turned 75 last week. You can take me!”

Finally, the man sat up and placed his beer on the bar before glancing towards the hallway, “I need a moment first.”  
Kerry followed his gaze and nodded. With a snap of his fingers, two minutemen stepped forward, escorting him to the bathrooms.

Michael quickly slipped inside the bathroom and into the last stall before the gangsters escorted the newcomer there. He watched as the man stood in front of the sink, rinsing his face with water before bracing himself on the side of the sink.  
He looked almost pale.

A knock sounded on the door, “You ready to go?”  
“Ready to go,” the man echoed, his arms shaking. The doorknob to the bathroom began to shake, and Michael took it as his queue.

Michael burst out of his stall, striking the gangster over the head with one of the loose boards he’d pulled off the crummy bathroom window. When the man hit the ground, out cold, Michael grabbed the shocked stranger’s wrist, “Let’s get you out of here.”

Michael dragged the man out of the bathroom and out the exit, hearing the now-angry minuteman leader yell, “Get him!”

The two had only run around the corner when Michael felt the man pull his hand free, “Stop! What are you doing?”  
“What am I doing?”  
“I can take care of myself.”  
Michael scoffed, “Yeah, I can see that.”  
“I know what I’m doing.”  
Before Michael could respond, he heard the minutemen round the corner.  
“Run.” Michael said, pushing the man forward, “Run!”

The pair ran on, down the dark alleyways of New Jersey. The pair could hear the roaring on an engine as the gangsters chased the pair in a car, growing closer. Michael quickly waved the other man into another alleyway, hopping the fence to put more distance between themselves and the gangsters.

Michael eyed the closed-down factory on his left, running to one of the locked doors.  
“Over here!” he hissed, jiggling the doorknob. He rammed his shoulder into the door a few times, trying to somehow dislodge the rust that had formed between the door and the door frame.  
Finally, with a few tugs, Michael managed to force the door open.  
“Hurry, go, go, go!” he hissed, pushing the man inside before running in himself, closing the door behind him, holding the doorknob tightly in case the door hadn’t stuck itself again.

The two quieted their breathing best they could, trying to remain quiet as they heard a car pull to a stop outside the building. Michael put his ear up to the door, hearing their muffled yelling.  
“Where’d they go?”  
“Son of a bitch, you did not lose them.”  
“Check the door!”

One of the men walked to the door, gripping the handle and pulling tight. Michael held on as tightly as he could, using all his strength to pull on the door and keep it closed. The man on the other side pulled and pulled, jiggling the doorknob furiously, before giving up.  
“Door’s stuck. Can’t be in there.”  
“Well then get your ass back into the car and find them!”

Michael didn’t move again until he heard the car doors close and the car screech off into the night.  
With a deep exhale, he released his hold on the door and rested his head against it, muttering, “Christ almighty.”

When Michael had managed to calm down his breathing, he stepped away from the door.  
“Come on. Let’s get to a higher level.”

The two walked up the old factory stairs in silence until they reached the fourth floor, when Michael stepped aside and sat down on an old couch in the room.  
The newcomer did the same, sitting himself down on a chair near the couch.

Michael shook his head, glancing at the clock on the man’s wrist, “What the hell are you doing here, flashing all that? Are you out of your goddamned mind?”  
The man shrugged, silently staring out the massive factory windows that overlooked the river.

There was silence between them for a few minutes before the man finally spoke, “Geoff Ramsey.”  
He held out his hand and Michael took it, shaking as he responded, “Michael Jones.”  
Michael watched as Geoff pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and took a drink, then handing it out to Michael.  
Hesitantly, he took it, taking a drink himself, only to instantly regret it.  
“Ugh, God,” he retched, shaking his head.

“Drink more,” Geoff said, smiling, “It gets better.”  
Michael took another drink, only to scrunch his face up and shook his head again. He handed the flask back, “Not much better.”  
Geoff chuckled, taking the flask and tucking it away again.

Michael lounged on the couch, watching the sun set out of the window.  
“You’ll be safe here, ‘til the morning. I’ll get you out of here.”  
Michael glanced over at Geoff, “You’re from Austin, right?”  
Geoff raised an eyebrow, “Does it show?”  
Michael shook his head, “Nah.”

Geoff looked Michael up and down, “You know, it looks like you could use some help, yourself.”  
“No, thanks,” Michael said bluntly.  
“How old are you?”  
“In real time? Twenty-eight.”  
“I’m one o’ five.”  
“Good for you. Won’t make it to one o’ six if you have any more nights like tonight.”  
“You’re right,” Geoff admitted with a sigh, pulling his flask out to have another drink, “But the day comes when you’ve had enough, you know.”  
“No, I don’t,” Michael responded.  
Geoff chuckled, “No, I guess you don’t.”

There was silence for a while before Geoff spoke again, “You get to a point where your mind’s spent, but your body’s not. We want to die, as old men, old women. We need to.”  
“Shit man, is that your problem? You been alive too long?”  
Geoff shrugged, “You know, for a few to be immortal, many must die.”  
Michael sat up, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
“You really haven’t noticed?” Geoff asked, the smile of his face long gone as he faced Michael, his elbows on his knees, “Everyone can’t live forever. Where would we put them? I mean, why do you think there are time zones? Why taxes and the cost of living increases everyday in the ghetto? They keep rising, to make sure people keep dying. How else could there be men like me, with a hundred plus years on his clock, while most live day to day?”

Michael watched as Geoff scooted his chair closer, bringing his voice low, almost to a whisper, “Truth is, though: there’s more than enough. No one has to die before their time.”

Michael was at a loss at how to respond, when Geoff looked down at his clock.  
“If you had as much time as I had on your clock, what would you do with it?”  
Michael looked down as well, watching the time tick away on his life.  
“I’d stop watching it.”  
Geoff looked at Michael, blinking a few times before smiling slightly, “That’s it?”  
“I can’t tell you exactly, man, but one thing’s for sure: I wouldn’t waste it.”

Geoff looked at the time on his own wrist, touching the clock gently.  
Michael turned around, letting himself lay on the couch with his back to Geoff, “Get some rest. And don’t worry, I won’t take your time in the night.”  
“And I won’t take yours,” Geoff responded, standing to move his chair back to its original spot.  
“Not like you’d need it,” Michael muttered, tucking his hands under his arms.  
There was a moment of silence, before Geoff spoke again, his voice soft.  
“It does get better. I promise.”

When Michael turned his head to look at him, Geoff had seated himself back on the chair and was looking out the window again, the flask in one hand and his head resting on the other.

Michael awoke hours later, sun filtering into the windows and shining right in his face.  
He groaned, rolling over and yawning, running his hand through his hair.  
He glanced to his left, finding the chair previously occupied by Geoff to be empty.  
Michael pushed himself up to his elbows, glancing around the room.  
Empty.

For some reason, he felt hyperaware of the clock embedded into his arm. He pulled back his jacket sleeve, one glance at his wrist causing his heart to nearly stop in shock.  
The numbers read: 0115:39:3:17:29:03.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update came a lot later than I'd planned. Oops?  
> Hopefully the rest of the chapters won't have such a huge gap between them.  
> Anyway, here's chapter 2!

Michael Jones was up and off the couch in seconds, scanning the room in an instant. He ran his hand through his hair, Okay, Michael, just breathe. Maybe he didn’t just off himself, yeah? If he timed himself out, he’d be in the room still. Besides, he had more than one hundred and fifteen years, right? Wasn’t his clock at one hundred and sixteen?  
He jogged over to the windows, pressing his hands against them as he looked out, left and right, hoping to find something.

Out the window and across the bridge over the canal, he spotted a man in a suit, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  
Michael watched as the man stopped at the other end of the bridge and glanced back at the building, giving a two-fingered salute before continuing on his way.

“Geoff!” Michael yelled, belatedly realizing that there was no way he was heard across the bridge from behind glass windows. He turned on his heels and ran out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time to reach the ground floor.

By the time Michael was outside and running along the dirt road towards the canal, Geoff Ramsey was gone.

“Shit,” Michael cursed under his breath, kicking at the dirt under his feet. He shook his head, fully aware that what happened to the man now was purely his own choice.  
“God speed, Mr. Ramsey,” Michael muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

For a moment, all Michael could do was stand in the middle of the street and wonder: now what?  
He had been sure he’d be stuck in New Jersey all his life, working his shit job in the shit town, living day by day on what little time he had on his clock. Now, however, the possibilities were endless. He could get the hell out of there, go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

The sudden realization of his freedom was so overwhelming that Michael felt chills down his spine.  
He did his best to shake them off, Easy there, Jones. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Michael began his walk back home, running what little of a plan he had through his head.  
First things first, he thought, gotta stop by Gavin’s.

When Michael knocked on Gavin’s door, there was initially no answer.  
“Come on, Gav,” Michael muttered, knocking again, harder this time.  
He was antsy standing outside, feeling exposed due to his new time. No one knew the amount of time he now possessed—there was no way they could know—but Michael was nervous anyway. He wanted out, and as long as he had time, he could make it.  
Only as long as he had that time, however.

Finally, Gavin opened his door.  
“Oh, Michael. What are you doing here so early?”  
“Just let me inside, Gavin,” Michael said, pushing himself inside his friend’s apartment and pulling the door shut behind him.  
“What’s going on?”  
“Just look at this,” Michael said, pulling his shirt sleeve up to reveal his time.

Gavin let out a squawk of surprise, “Where did you get that?”  
“The guy at the bar. They were gonna kill him. I helped him and he… gave it to me.”  
“Did he time himself out?”  
Michael rolled his sleeve back down, “No, he didn’t. I think he left himself a year—disappeared before I could stop him.”  
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Gavin said, “No one just gives someone one hundred years!”  
“Well he did.”

Gavin glanced over his shoulder, as if suddenly worried someone was spying on them, “You can’t let anyone see, Michael. You’ll be killed!”  
“As if I don’t already know that. How long have we been friends?”  
“What? Uh, I dunno, like ten years?”  
“Here,” Michael said, grasping Gavin’s wrist, letting time flow from his clock to his friend’s, “Ten years. You’ve been a great friend, even though you are a fucking idiot.”

Gavin gaped at the time on his wrist, “But—wh—where are you gonna go, Michael?”  
“Somewhere where this much time won’t get me killed.”  
“Michael, that’s crazy.”  
“Not as crazy as staying here! Gav, I finally have the time to get to Austin!”  
Gavin shook his head, “Well, I can’t really stop you, then, can I? Just, don’t do anything stupid, okay?”  
“That’s rich coming from you,” Michael said, smiling.

The two shared a brief hug, giving each other a pat on the back before Michael left Gavin’s apartment, heading back to his own place.

Michael had intended to pack a bag before leaving, taking whatever was necessary for his trip to Austin.  
He spent about half an hour going through his things before deciding that he didn’t need any of them.  
He left his suitcase opened and empty on his bed and left, locking the door behind him.

“Michael?”  
He turned to see Jack, as per the norm, “You’re not usually out at this time. Is something wrong?”  
Michael grinned, “Nothing’s wrong, man. Everything’s great.”  
He turned to head out of the building, but turned back at the last second, “Oh, almost forgot.”  
He jogged back and took Jack’s wrist, ignoring his confused inquiries as he gave the man six years.  
When Jack looked at his new time in shock, Michael turned and waved, “Three for you and three for your wife. Thanks for all you two have done for me, man.”  
“Michael, wha—”  
“See ya, Jack!” Michael called before running out of the building.

Unbeknownst to Michael at this time, as he called for a cab to get him out of New Jersey, a group of four men had just arrived at the factory where Geoff Ramsey had given a sleeping Michael one hundred and fifteen years.

As the four exited their car, only one held a device in his hands, used to view security tapes from the area.  
He tapped the screen, fast forwarding and rewinding through the footage.  
“Entered the factory at night with one other, left alone the next morning,” he mused to himself.  
He adjusted the glasses on his face before looking up at his men, nodding, “Check the building. See if there are any clues to his whereabouts.”  
Two of his men nodded and did as they were told, leaving their boss with one cop to check the recording again.

He skipped forward again, watching the security footage on Geoff Ramsey, crossing the bridge and never coming back. He drummed his fingers on his car, letting out a breath. He tapped the video forward ever so slightly, surprised to see another person on the footage, running across the bridge mere minutes later. He paused the video. Whoever this person was, he was worth looking into.

“Any leads so far, Detective Narvaez?” asked his cop underling, looking over his senior detective’s shoulder.  
“Just this guy,” he said, handing the paused recording over, “Gonna need to get an ID on him.”  
“Think he knows where Mr. Ramsey is?”  
Ray responded with a laugh, “Knows where he is? I’d be willing to bet he’s hunting Geoff, if anything. The guy’s got a century, you know. People around here will kill someone for a few days time, no matter who you are.”  
The officer shifted his weight, “Wouldn’t he know something like that? Why come here?”  
“If I knew that, Jenzen, we’d be a step closer to finding him.”

“Do you think,” Officer Jenzen continued, “that maybe he… timed himself out?”  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
“It’s a possibility, right? The best place to do it would be here. Corpses line the street in the ghetto all the time…”  
The Detective crossed his arms across his chest, “Tell me, Jenzen: how long have you been keeping time?”  
“Five years.”  
“Alright. Tell me what you think when you’ve been doing it for fifty. Wealthy businessmen don’t just time themselves out, especially if they’re Geoff Ramsey.” He gestured at the device in Officer Jenzen’s hands, “Get to ID-ing the man in that video.”  
“Yes sir, Mr. Narvaez, sir.”

By this time, a cab had just pulled up in front of Michael Jones, the passenger window rolling down. The driver leaned towards the window, “Am I in the right place?”  
“Sure are,” Michael said, opening the backdoor seat and stepping inside.  
“Don’t usually make pick-ups in this zone,” the driver said, glancing at Michael in the rear-view mirror.  
“I was lost,” Michael lied, buckling his seatbelt and giving the outside one last glance before motioning for the cab driver to start driving.

It didn’t take long for the two to reach the edge of the time zone, the cab driver pulling to a stop at the cement wall.  
A small, c-shaped plastic bit popped up beside Michael, the automated voice telling him to “deposit one month”.  
He stuck his hand in the opening, listening for the beep before removing his hand and letting the plastic bit to retract into the seat once again.

The pair sat in silence as they crossed through the next time zone, this time asking for a deposit of two months. The same continued through the time zones, each one gradually growing in price until he reached the outskirts of Austin.  
He deposited the final amount, rolling up his sleeve to glance at the amount left, “There are a lot more of these than I remember,” he said, “That last one took a year.”  
The cab driver simply shrugged, “Well, welcome to Austin. Where do you want me to take you?”  
“A hotel. Any one is fine.”

When the cab driver pulled up to the hotel in the middle of town, Michael thanked the driver and stepped out.  
He stretched his arms and was ready to walk towards the front door when he heard the window roll down behind him.  
Michael peered through the open window at the cab driver, who was leaning towards Michael, “What are you really doing here, son?”  
Michael just grinned, “I’m here to take ‘em for everything they’ve got.”

He stepped away from the car, turning on his heel before he could see the driver’s reaction. Hands in his pockets, he stepped up the curb and headed for the hotel.  
He was glancing around him as he walked, taking in the new scenery, the amount of people, the weathiness of it all (which wasn’t a word, but Michael couldn’t really think of a real word that could describe the city better).

Michael’s attention was caught by a limousine parked on the edge of a curb, a man in a suit standing nearby.  
Another man ushered him towards the vehicle, “Please, sir, you can’t be too careful, especially since recent events—”  
“Yes, I know, I know, you don’t need to touch me,” the man responded, shaking him off and glancing up at passerby’s as the car door was opened for him.  
Michael made eye contact with the man for a few split seconds before he disappeared into the limo, door shut behind him.

Michael’s gaze lingered on the limousine for a few moments more, resulting in Michael running straight into a pedestrian.  
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, asshole,” someone hissed at him.  
Michael turned his attention to the person he collided with, “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
When he looked up again, the limo was gone. When he looked back at the person he ran into, they were already hurrying away.

Michael shook his head and focused on reaching the hotel entrance, which was only a few steps away at this point.  
Upon entering the building and approaching the front desk, a man and women flashed him pleasant but forced smiles.  
“Did you need something?” the woman asked, subtly eyeing Michael up and down, suspecting he didn’t belong in Austin.  
“Yeah,” Michael said, “what’s a night here cost?”  
“Two months for a standard room,” the man responded, keeping his fake smile plastered on his face.  
Michael pulled up the edge of his shirt to reveal his wrist, sticking it forward, “Give me a suite.”  
The pair exchanged shocked glances before the woman took the payment and rummaged for the correct room key card.  
“Do you need help with your bags?” the man asked.  
Michael glanced at the empty floor beside him before looking back up at the two workers, “No.”  
He took the suite key from the woman and turned on his heel, heading to his new room.

When Michael reached his new room, he locked the door behind him and plopped down on the bed.  
“This is fucking awesome,” he muttered into the sheets, letting himself sink into the soft mattress.

As Michael had reached the hotel, however, Detective Ray Narvaez Jr. had returned back to the station with his men and all evidence they had found.  
The detective had labored over the video time and time again, hoping to find some kind of extra clue.  
“I was thinking,” Officer Jenzen said, approaching the detective again, “We don’t know if this guy had already taken Mr. Ramsey’s time in the video. He could’ve been running away, trying to keep this guy from timing him out.”  
Ray shook his head, “Could be. Can’t really throw out any possibilities at this point.”

The detective stood upright, allowing Officer Kdin another look at the footage.  
“Chances are, though, Geoff’s time is gone. If this guy took it, though, why aren’t we seeing it circulating?”  
“Well, maybe he capsuled the time?”  
“No, that wouldn’t work. You can’t hide a hundred years in the ghetto; they can sense when a man has more time than he should. We need to check for any unusual activity recently, see if anyone’s left that time zone recently.”  
“Should I get on it, sir?”  
“Right away,” Detective Narvaez confirmed.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael looked up when the waitress returned, holding out a pay pad, “That’ll be eight and a half weeks.”

He placed his hand on the pad, transferred nine and a half weeks and removed his hand. When she gave him a look of questioning, he said, “Take a week for yourself.”

“Thanks,” she said, looking again as the device in her hands.

“You’re… not from around here, are you?” she asked, lowering her voice ever so slightly, “You do everything a little too fast.”

Michael chuckled, “Not everything.” He looked out the window, nodding at the building out it, “What’s that place across the street?”

“The casino.”

“Can anybody go?”

“Not dressed like that.”

Michael looked down at his t-shirt and jeans and frowned. It was probably time for a short shopping trip anyway.  
He pushed himself out of his chair and nodded at the waitress, passing her to leave.

“Good luck,” she said, watching Michael leave before moving on to another customer.

Kdin Jenzen entered Ray’s office, carrying a small, hand-held device.  
“You were right, sir,” Kdin said, tapping at the device, “if you turn back the clocks to Ramsey’s death and look at the time checks, someone spent years crossing four time zones from Jersey to…” he tapped few more times before finishing with: “Austin.”

“Is that all?” Detective Narvaez asked when Jenzen paused.

The younger cop shook his head, “No, no. The cameras picked up on his suspicious behavior, suddenly leaving his time zone. I cross referenced the footage of him leaving with the footage near Ramsey’s disappearance.”

“I’m assuming you found a match?”

“Yep. Used multiple stills from the cameras and accessed the databases of factories in the area, to see if I could find a match in their employee databases.”

“And?”

Kdin handed over the device, letting the Detective see the picture of the culprit.  
“Michael Jones. Born and raised in Jersey. Lives alone.”

Ray scanned the image, nodding slowly, “Track his transactions. I expect to find him by tomorrow, Jenzen.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Kdin replied, retrieving his personal data pad before leaving. 

Michael walked into the casino, adjusting his bowtie one last time before coming upon two gentlemen near the entrance.   
From the way they looked at him, Michael knew they didn’t recognize him. They knew he was new.  
And they weren’t the only ones.

Many casino members looked his way, whispering to their friends and family. When he looked up, he saw a man leaning against the railing, smiling subtly as he spoke to two suited men by his sides, his gaze lingering on Michael.  
Michael recognized the man as the one from that morning, who had been rushed into his limousine by someone who looked much like the suited man to his left.

Michael returned his focus to the two men by the entrance, “Good evening. I assume my time is as good as anyone’s.”

“Indeed it is,” the man on the left nodded, “However, there is a voluntary donation for non-members. Most give a year.”

Michael reached out his hand, ready to pay.  
When they held out a payment pad, he placed his hand and gave five years.  
Upon taking the pad back, the gentleman on the right smiled up at him, stepping out from behind his podium and extending an arm out to Michael.

“What’s you game, sir?”

He looked up at the balcony, watching the man from earlier walk into a separate room. His knowledge of casinos gave him an idea of where he went.  
“Poker.”

“Right this way.”

The man led Michael up the stairs and past the spot on the balcony where limousine man had stood, into the next room. Michael thanked the man and took a seat at the poker table, across from the very man who had been at the balcony a mere minute ago. The other three seats were occupied by other men, who didn’t make eye contact or seem to care he was there at all. He noticed the room was also occupied by various distinguished-looking men and women, who were whispering amongst themselves away from the table.

Spectators, Michael figured. He watched as the man waved his hand at the dealer, who proceeded to shuffle the deck and deal out cards.

Michael was not the one to speak first.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of your company, Mr…?”

“Jones. Michael Jones.”

“Ryan Haywood.” He didn’t look away from Michael when the cards were being dealt. He smiled, “You must have come from another time zone.”

“You could say I’m gambling my inheritance,” Michael shrugged, finding himself surprisingly intimidated by Ryan’s stare.

Ryan picked up his hand, silently skimming over his cards before making eye contact with Michael again, “You don’t have a guard, Mr. Jones?”

“I assumed I was amongst friends.” Michael countered, smirking across the table as Ryan placed his wrist under the metal device attached to the bottom of the table.

“Bet you fifty years.”

Another few men added their own time, but not nearly as much as Ryan Haywood had.

Michael watched the box that was placed on the center of the table add up to a total of 0752:29:0:13:0. These guys really treated time like it was no skin off their backs.

Ryan leaned back in his set, glancing over to his guards nearby before looking back towards Michael.

“You must be young. When you’ve been twenty-five for eighty-five years like I have, knowing a random act of violence can take your life, you learn to appreciate what you have.”

Michael struggled to not show the handsome man his anger and annoyance at the comment. People died every day where he was raised, by acts more violent than this pampered man had probably experienced, but he forced a smile onto his face when he spoke back, “And you seem to have a lot to appreciate.”

Michael silently added another fifty years to the box, leaning back in his seat once he finished, “I call.”

There was a sound of heels clacking on the floor as a red-headed woman walked into the room, accompanied by guards on either side of her. She eyed the men at the table, waiting for a few moments before a guard moved a chair beside Ryan before seating herself gracefully next to the man.

Ryan watched her as she settled herself, smiling sweetly at the men at the table before Ryan turned his attention back to Michael.

“Of course, some think what we have is unfair. The time difference between zones.”  
Michael wasn’t sure where he was going with this. It was almost like he knew Michael wasn’t from town—like Ryan was trying to get a reaction out of him. Michael wasn’t having any of it.

“I’ve heard that,” he said, keeping as neutral of an expression as he could. 

Ryan ran his fingers across his own wrist clock before leaning forward on his elbows, his fingers entwined, “But isn’t this the next logical step in our evolution? And hasn’t evolution always been unfair? It’s always been survival of the fittest.”

When Michael didn’t respond, Ryan added yet again to the winnings.  
“Raise you two centuries.”

Ryan seemed to notice Michael’s shock at the size of the winnings pile, up to 1002:29:0:00:07:00 at that point.

“This is merely Darwinian capitalism, Michael. Natural selection.”

Michael drummed his fingers on his cards, which were resting face-down on the table.  
“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Haywood,” Michael drawled, “The strong survive. And I think your hand is weak. I call.”

He placed his wrist under the table, letting the machine take all but thirty seconds off his clock, resulting in a solid total of 1100:00:0:00:00:00. With his shirt sleeve rolled to his elbow, he laid his arm out for all to see, as the seconds ticked down.

Both Ryan Haywood and the red-haired woman beside him both visibly jolted in shock.  
While the woman was still recovering, Ryan leaned forward with an intrigued smile on his face, “Well, it seems you’re all-in, Mr. Jones.”

He flipped his cards face-up, revealing Queen of spades and a Queen of clovers.

Michael looked down at his own cards, flipping them over to reveal an eight of hearts and four of spades.

A third man at the table had five cards—seven of clovers, five of spades, six of diamonds, Queen of hearts, and Jack of spades.

Michael’s clock was down to three seconds before he placed it on the metal piece on top of the table, to his right. 1100 years flowed from the mechanisms on the table and onto Michael’s arm.

Ryan smiled at Michael in a way that was almost proud. “Well played!” He stood from the table, the shocked red-head doing the same. Ryan walked to Michael, who had stood from the table as well.  
“Thirteen figures! Well played, Mr. Jones. That was some risk.”  
Michael seemed almost embarrassed by the praise, “It wasn’t a risk. No offence intended—I knew I was going to win.”

The red-headed woman pushed her hair over her shoulder, giving Ryan a knowing look. She seemed ready to pull him aside, when a buzzing from inside her purse made her grimace and reluctantly leave.

The pair watched her fish a phone out of her purse, pressing it to her ear as she rounded a corner.

Ryan chuckled, leaning closer to Michael, “Confusing times. Is she my mother? My sister? You’re hoping she’s not my wife.”  
Michael was suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. He tugged at his shirt collar, chuckling nervously, “Yeah, well… Things used to be simpler. So I’m told.”

There was a pause between them. Michael suddenly felt very awkward—she was his wife, wasn’t she? This guy was teasing him. Had to be.

Michael cleared his throat, “She’s uh… very beautiful.”  
Ryan let out a laugh—as if what Michael had just said was absolutely priceless.

Michael couldn’t help but feel offended.

“My business partner, Miss Lindsay Tuggey. Single.” He winked and nudged Michael’s shoulder.

Michael laughed nervously, “Actually, I wasn’t really wondering about her.”

Ryan looked at Michael, a confused expression on his face. “Wasn’t wondering about—oh.”

He leaned back against the balcony behind them, running a hand through his hair. His laugh was much more nervous-sounding now—he sounded caught off guard. Michael nearly laughed.

Ryan finally cleared his throat, “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll invite you to the party I’m throwing tomorrow night.”

“A party? Really?”

A third voice interrupted their incredibly awkward conversation, “Perhaps you’ll give him a chance to win back some of those years.”

The pair looked to the source, finding the woman from earlier—Lindsay, as Michael now knew.  
“Oh, Lindsay,” Ryan greeted, “I don’t think I introduced—”

“Lindsay Tuggey,” she interrupted, sticking her hand out towards Michael.

“Oh, Michael Jones. Nice to meet you.”

The grip she had on Michael’s hand was almost deadly, “Likewise. Congratulations on taking years off my partner’s life.”

“That’s usually your job, isn’t it, Tuggey?”

She smirked, “Well, yes, but I can’t be the only one to beat your ass at poker. Honestly, it gets tiring.”

Michael chuckled at the exchange, relieved that the air had cleared since the game.

“Anyway,” Ryan stressed, turning away from his business partner, “Lindsay can give you the details if you decide to come tomorrow night.”

“Sure,” Michael shrugged, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great. Good night, then, Mr. Jones,” Ryan said, extending his arm out.

“Likewise, Mr. Haywood,” Michael responded, briefly shaking the man’s hand before he was escorted out of the game room.

Lindsay scribbled down an address on a piece of paper, ripping it out of the small notepad in her hands.

She held out the paper to Michael, who took it gratefully out of her hands.

“Party starts at seven pm,” she said, turning on her heel, “Don’t be late. Mr. Haywood hates to be kept waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on adding Lindsay-- it just kind of happened? (I love Lindsay. Guess it was inevitable.)  
> I'm sorry this chapter is such a mess.


End file.
